While standing at the sink this morning, I came to a conclusion. This conclusion was brought on by the otherworldly shaking my hip/belly fat made while I mixed the twin's bottles. I'm of the opinion that anytime one can watch as a ripple makes it's way from around the lower back and culminate in a size-mic earthquake around the belly button area...there's a potential problem. It begs desperately for someone to call the National Guard, as you may just take out a few small buildings if your muffin top gyrates wrong. Standing in my sweatshirt, underwear, and fuzzy ankle boot slippers, I decided then and there that it's time for a change. It's time to get off my butt and workout....ugh.
Anyone who knows me, knows that working out and I are mortal enemies of the most serious kind. Working out is the Darth Vader to my Luke Skywalker...the Joker to my Batman. I hate it and it hates me, and I've been A-ok with this for most of my years on this planet. Now, I'm well aware that there are those who enjoy a very satisfying love affair with it; jogging in their matching spandex and sleek, blond ponytails. I WISH I was that waif of a lady running on the treadmill like a pack of wild wolverines was after her, all the while keeping a smile that says, " I don't have to use a crow bar to zip MY pants." Barf.